I have loved my blog for so long, but I think I’m ready to return to anonimity and inner silence.

Or, perhaps, I just have nothing else to say. (wink)

I have let my webmistress know that she can reclaim this site at any time. But, I thought I’d post one last time to say, in the vein of Bob Hope, “thanks for the memories . . .”

One of my favorite friends invited me to dinner with him and his boyfriend. He even said he would cook curry for me. I said, “Oh, a man who can cook! You’re perfect. I’ll bring the Oscar Wilde and white wine, if you are willing to slave over a hot stove for me.”

His response, “I’m not perfect, Kathleen. Don’t be silly.”

I replied, “Of course you are. Perfect in your imperfections. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Good faults make a man. Bad faults make him better.”

Now that’s a quote worthy of Oscar, isn’t it? I think he’d be proud of me.

So, this morning, I climb into my six-month old Kia Sportage, and it’s having trouble starting. I rev it like a grandma going through a store front window, but it simply doesn’t want to stay running. It’s fighting me.

Now, I know just enough about cars to be dangerous, as they tend to say. If there’s an issue with your car starting, it always boils down to two things: no fuel or no fire.

This here was a fuel problem of a great, great, mountainous issue. But, could I two-foot drive it to the dealership? Would I make it?

Nothing like giving it the old college try. So, I drive it down my hill like a stick-shift whore and finally roll it into the service bay of the dealership around 8.

Johnny—the service guy I’ve seen a number of times for oil changes, etc.—looks at my quizically. I say, “I don’t have an appointment; I have an emergency.”

I tell him the story. He says, “Weird.” Pops the hood. Messes around with some hoses. Gets in. Starts it. It dies. He says, “Weird.”

He takes the car and sends me off to work with their little shuttle service. I get a call about 2. He says, “Mice.”

I say, “Eh?”

“Mice. They chewed through a minor fuel hose. Mechanic says they must have been living up in your car for at least a few days.”

Wow. Mice. I haven’t had that sort of issue since living at the farm . . . then, it was somewhat of a normal occurence, actually. Mice. Kittens. Snakes. It’s amazing the menagerie that can live under your hood.

The Farm! I was there just over a week ago.

On the way home from the dealership, I called my stepdad, told him the story. He jokingly said, “I don’t believe it. If you want 90 bucks from me, girl, you’d better bring proof.”

That’s my dad. (wink)

I sent a letter to my friends today to celebrate the holiday that is orchestrated by marketing peeps to make us single people feel like there must be SOMETHING wrong with us.

This morning, I felt most sorry for our company receptionist. When I walked in at 8:30, she was already dealing with a couple of floral delivery vans out front. Poor girl. I’ll bet, more than anything, she wanted to call in sick today.

And everyone here is wearing red. It’s like a bloody massacre. I told a friend “I’d think we were all back in high school, but there isn’t any screaming or trenchcoats.”

He said he was proud of me for making such a politically incorrect joke, but not to share it in public, as I’d be “taken out.” And, that’s probably true. I’d go down like a college opinion editor. (Hit the link if you don’t get THAT joke.)

Holy crap, Swift could never write in today’s P.C. environment. “A Modest Proposal” would get him lynched, wouldn’t it?

Anyway, back on the original topic of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share the letter I wrote to friends for those of you I might only be able to send this blog link to (because sending the letter would “red flag” you to your work IT people as perverted; can’t have that).

 ——————————–

To: All

Subject: Valentine’s Day

There’s one great thing about Valentine’s Day: Underneath the flowers, the candy, and the stuffed gorillas (man, I totally want a stuffed gorilla), it’s all about sex. (wink) So, for those of you that I love—both single and coupled—I thought I’d share a naughty scene from a longer book I’m working on. After all, nothing says “Happy Valentine’s Day” like erotica.

Hope your V-Day brings sex, chocolates . . . or both. Ooo. Or a stuffed gorilla.

Love,
Kathleen

Here’s your naughty story:
The stale light of the open fridge door sets his bare skin aglow—not quite like candle light, more like the frozen food aisle.
 
I patter up behind him and press myself into his back—a simple act. I know he can feel my pert nipples needling into his skin; I can taste how he enjoys the slide of my cool, smooth chest along his spine. Our separate skins warm together on contact.
 
I’ve consumed enough of him to make him lightheaded, confused, to make the connection electric, deep.
 
Then, my hands reach around to caress his chest while I leave quick kisses along his shoulder blade and up the nape of his neck.
 
My hands move lower to trace the sharp bulges of his hip bones before continuing their exploration into the Deep South—to hold him firm, to stroke him. To take his penis between the pads of my index and thumb and draw it, create a pattern, write a symphony along his cock, use the flesh as both libretto and instrument l’éducation . . . his education. My fingers play his body like Wolfgang at the harpsichord, Paganini picking up a violin, Chopin undressing Madame Sand.
 
I use my nails and the light tips of my fingers to draw patterns on his burgeoning flesh. Those patterns burn a tad, but he just doesn’t mind.
 
And, I haven’t stopped kissing him—instead I run a trail with my lips from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back and back up again, my mouth a lustful little boomerang.
 
He stands there leaning against the open door of the fridge, the cold air hitting his re-aroused body—the door gripped in one hand, the frame in the other, shivering.
 
It’s too much. He cracks like a California fault line, whips around and grabs my San Francisco, pushes his Oakland peninsula against it. The fridge door bangs back against the wall, open and unblinking, the action having tumbled a couple of water bottles from the shelf inside.
 
They roll across the floor in opposite directions. One takes to the West, exploring the formal dining room and coming to rest at the wet bar. The other runs off to the East, bumping up against a leg of the small kitchen table.
 
He grips me tight—cities and suburbs and golden California hills—and backs me up against that flat Death Valley desert of the kitchen table, sending it moving from the force. He rubs his hard, ready cock against my thigh, kissing my neck at the same time.
 
I laugh and say, “Again? My stars.” as he lifts me up to partially lay on the dry wooden surface, my legs dangling over the edge.
 
He fucks quickly, rushed, in a flurry of passionate strokes and immediate, trembling aftershocks. My legs move up to lock his hips and pull him down into my Big Valley faster, harder.
 
I reach out to each side and grip my fingers over the table edges like two vices to hold my body in place under him. He asks questions; he wants answers. He wants to wrap himself in the deep, warm recesses of my voice, lose himself in it the way he is in the deep, warm recess between my thighs. And, there is no doubt that he is lost in that wet, tight flesh—tighter than any he has ever known before: a slim and narrow box canyon of his naughty Lone Ranger fantasies.
 
He reaches the cliff’s peak first, but continues to use his fingers hard and fast against my clit to bring me along behind quickly. I am only a moment before joining him in the flurry of spasms and end strokes that has the kitchen mesa dancing loudly over the linoleum before slamming into the lip of the sink.
 
“That’s going to leave a mark,” I say, breathless, as he collapses a bit to the side and has to grip the table’s edge to keep himself from falling off the desert tower to a dusty death below.
 
We half-stand/half-lay on the corner of the mesa for minutes afterward, quieting our inhalation together and watching each other in the clinical white light of the open refrigerator door.
 
He traces a line on my belly from the Artichoke Capital of the World to Monterrey. Then, he wraps my shivering California loosely in his arms, burying his nose in the warm, clean hair that falls forward from the Redwood forest at the nape of my neck. My right hand and his left intertwine lightly with the backs of fingers in the warm atmosphere between our bodies.
 
“That was—” he begins in a soft whisper. I stop him with a hard kiss, but he is persistent. “What was that?”
 
I kiss him again. I explore his mouth with my tongue—searching for Spanish gold, the fountain of youth, the riches of India—before giving his bottom lip a sharp bite as I pull away.

Overheard:

ML: I’m reading “savage love.”  One reader wrote in with this question: What’s the biggest difference between a gay and a straight marriage? Dan’s answer was: The only really significant difference, SBWTK, is the likelihood of any given husband hearing these 11 magic words: “Honey, it’s been way too long since we had a three-way.”
jinkies1973: I think that’s sexist. I’d say that. But, I’d never get the chance to, because the kind of girl a straight man would marry would be more like dear old Mum. And Mum would never want a three-way. Women get “nailed” for being frigid when they don’t have any real way to escape it in social settings. You are either a “good girl” or a whore.
ML: yes, thats a good point
jinkies1973: Men don’t marry whores. Period.
jinkies1973: Gay men have no such dichotomy in their social settings.
jinkies1973: Therefore, Mr. Savage, you are perpetuating a sexist image of women the same as any straight man.
jinkies1973: Thank you very much.
jinkies1973: (wink)
jinkies1973: I’d marry two bisexual men any day of the week. And there would be three-ways galore.
ML: that’s hot
ML: but you’re probably the exception to the rule
jinkies1973: And that’s what Mr. Savage would say, too.
jinkies1973: I say, “I don’t think I am the exception. I’m simply the one willing to be more vocal about it and take the “slutty” flak.”
jinkies1973: But, if I am the exception, I feel sorry for most women.